4. Chapter 4
Rocco
Nothing about the booth requires further attention. Its owner does.
I arrive at the park before sunrise. Overnight security reports no incidents beyond two teenagers attempting to climb the fence near the stage and a raccoon discovering the kettle-corn supplies. The teenagers ran. The raccoon did not and required more negotiation.
By six thirty, my team has completed a full perimeter sweep. Vendor entrances open at seven. The public arrives at nine.
Loralee enters at seven nineteen wearing dark jeans, boots, and a long cream cardigan beneath a rust-colored coat.
Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders today, the gold sections almost pale beneath the cold morning light.
She carries a covered tray in one hand and a canvas bag over the opposite shoulder.
She is nineteen minutes later than most vendors. She is also forty-one minutes early for the time printed in her instructions. I watch her present her credential at the entrance before I walk over.
“You’re early,” I say.
She looks toward the clock mounted above the pavilion doors. “The festival does not open until nine.”
“Vendor readiness inspection begins at eight.”
“My booth passed inspection last night.”
“I remember.”
Her eyes brighten with amusement. “Did it remain on your mind?”
“The inspection is documented.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
A cold breeze moves through the park, carrying the scent of coffee, damp leaves, and woodsmoke from somewhere beyond the festival boundary.
Loralee’s hair blows across her face. She tucks it behind one ear, revealing a small silver crescent hanging from it.
I notice the movement longer than I should.
She lifts the tray. “I brought breakfast.”
“For me?”
“For myself. Boundaries are important.”
I look at the size of the tray. “That’s a great deal of breakfast.”
“I need recovery food between appointments. Ava packed muffins, cinnamon rolls, and several items she claims contain protein.”
“What does that mean?”
“There are nuts.”
She walks toward her booth. I fall into step beside her because it lies within my patrol route. The fact that my route could include any of the other sixty-three booths is irrelevant.
“Did you post the video?” I ask.
Loralee glances at me. “I thought security companies used social media.”
“They do.”
“Then you know how posting works.”
“You agreed not to show my face.”
“Your face isn’t visible.”
“My voice is.”
“You gave me permission to leave it.”
“I remember.”
“Do you remember everything?”
“Most things.”
We reach her booth. Loralee places the tray beneath the sales counter, then takes out her phone. She opens the video and holds the screen toward me.
The edited version begins with the empty canopy against the mountains. A quick sequence follows as fabric, shelves, lanterns, and displays appear in stages. Loralee moves through the frame arranging candles and crystals. Occasionally, my arm enters the shot to secure something beyond her reach.
My voice is clearer than I expected.
Fabric creates a fire load.
The video cuts to Loralee smiling into the camera.
Apparently, change also requires a safety inspection.
She added quiet music, captions, and several close images of her products. The final shot shows the completed booth glowing beneath the maple tree.
The video is good. Professional. More polished than anything my company has posted in six months. It also has more than four thousand views.
I examine the number again. “When did you post this?”
“Last night.”
I scroll through the comments.
The security man’s voice.
Who is Mr. Fabric Creates a Fire Load?
Ask him whether dangerously hot counts as a safety violation.
I hand the phone back. “Delete it.”
Loralee laughs. “No.”
“You said my face wasn’t visible.”
“It isn’t.”
“People are commenting about me.”
“People comment about everything.”
“One wants to know whether I’m dangerously hot.”
“She phrased it as a safety question. You should appreciate that.”
I stare at her. Loralee presses her lips together, attempting to contain another laugh. It doesn’t work. The sound is warm, unguarded, and entirely too appealing in the cold morning air.
“I won’t identify you,” she promises. “Your mysterious professional integrity remains intact.”
“I own a security company. I’m not mysterious.”
“You have long dark hair, at least two scars, an old injury you refuse to discuss, and a voice that convinced four thousand people to care about electrical clearances. You’re practically folklore.”
Before I can answer, one of my employees passes behind us carrying a radio charger.
“Morning, Mr. Fire Load.”
I turn my head. He continues walking without looking back.
Loralee reaches beneath the counter and offers me a muffin. “For the emotional damage.”
I take it. Her smile changes, becoming less teasing and more warmly personal.
“Caramel apple,” she says. “Associated with temptation, knowledge, and hidden desire.”
“It’s a muffin.”
“That is what Jake said the first time I met him.”
“Who is Jake?”
“Ava’s man … not mine.”
I look down at the caramel glaze. Now, I’m wondering if Loralee has a man. What kind of man could possibly keep up with her.
By nine fifteen, the festival paths are crowded.
Families move between booths beneath strings of rust and gold banners.
Children carry paper cups of cider while their parents examine carved wood, pottery, quilts, and food products.
Music from the stage travels across the park without overpowering conversation.
Booth 37 draws attention immediately. Some visitors stop because of the crystals arranged beneath the lanterns. Others lift candle lids and smell every available scent. Several recognize Loralee from social media, and one woman has driven more than an hour for a scheduled reading.
I pass her booth four times before ten. Each pass is operationally justified.
The artisan section sits between the main entrance and the wellness garden. From there, I can monitor crowd density, observe the western food-vendor lane, and check the emergency route Loralee blocked yesterday. It remains clear.
On my fifth pass, Loralee is seated across from an older woman at a small round table near the rear of the booth. A deck of cards lies between them. I cannot hear the conversation, but I can see the change in Loralee’s posture.
She is no longer playful. Her hands rest quietly on the table, and her attention remains fixed on the woman’s face rather than the cards. The woman speaks for several minutes, then begins crying.
Loralee reaches across the table and covers her hand. I look away.
Whatever happens within that booth is private unless someone’s safety is involved. Tears are not evidence of danger. Still, I remain near the garden entrance until the woman leaves.
She emerges minutes later with red eyes, but seems at peace. Loralee walks her to the front, accepts a brief hug, and waits until she disappears into the crowd. Then Loralee grips the edge of the table.
The movement lasts less than a second. Most people would miss it. I don’t. I cross the path and enter her booth.
“Are you okay?”
Loralee straightens, but the movement does not restore the color to her face.
“That depends on whether you’re asking as the festival security specialist or as the man who has passed my booth five times this morning.”
“I’m asking because you look like that reading took something out of you.”
She gathers the cards into a single stack and rests her hands over them. Her fingers are steady, although the brightness she carried through the morning has dimmed.
“It did,” she admits. “I don’t normally feel drained this early. I only have four private readings scheduled today, and I planned enough time between them to reset.”
“What happened?”
Her gaze moves briefly toward the path where the woman disappeared. “Sometimes a reading requires more from me than I anticipate. I put a great deal of energy into that one.”
She offers no details about the woman, and I don’t ask. Whatever was said belongs to the two of them.
“My next appointment is in fifteen minutes,” Loralee continues. “That gives me time to ground myself.”
I look around the booth. Several customers browse the candles near the entrance, and more people are approaching from the main path. Privacy and rest are difficult to find when strangers can step into her space at any moment.
“Do you need the booth cleared?”
Surprise flickers across her face. “No. Shopping doesn’t require much from me. I only need a few quiet minutes before I open myself to someone else.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
The question seems to catch her off guard more than anything else I have said.
“I appreciate you asking,” she says. “But I’ll be all right.”
I nod and step back toward the aisle. Giving her space should not feel like leaving something unfinished, but it does.
“Rocco?”
I turn. Loralee’s attitude has softened.
“Thank you for checking.”
“You looked like you needed someone to.”
For a moment, she only watches me. Then some of the warmth returns to her eyes.
“I’m not accustomed to being the one people check on.”
The admission is quiet enough that I almost miss it beneath the festival noise.
“Maybe you should be,” I say.
A radio call reports a blocked service entrance on the west side. I confirm that I’m responding, then leave Loralee to the fifteen minutes she asked for.
I make it halfway across the artisan section before looking back. She is seated with her eyes closed and both feet planted on the ground. Her hands rest loosely over the cards.
No one approaches her. I continue toward the west entrance before I can invent another reason to remain.
The blocked entrance is caused by a delivery van that takes twelve minutes to relocate. Afterward, I check the children’s area, verify an alcohol vendor’s wristband procedures, and address a disagreement over electrical access behind the stage.
For almost an hour, I do not pass Loralee’s booth. I know because I count everything.
Shortly after noon, a gust moves through the park hard enough to rattle several canopies.
Radio calls come from three areas at once.
One vendor loses a banner. Another has failed to secure a table covering.
Near the wellness garden, a suspended wooden sign swings loose from one side of its frame. I reach it before it falls.
The sign is heavier than it looks. I catch one edge overhead with my right hand while guiding two visitors away with the other. Pain drives through my shoulder and down my arm, sudden enough to weaken my grip. Another set of hands steadies the lower edge.
Loralee stands beside me.
“Let go,” I tell her.
“No.”
“The bracket could fall.”
“Then stop holding it over both our heads.”
She is right.
I lower the sign carefully while one of my employees clears the surrounding area. Once it is on the ground, I step back and rotate my shoulder. The movement sends another sharp line of pain beneath the blade.
Loralee watches.
“I’m fine. The sign is down and no one was hurt.”
“That is not what I’m looking at.”
People begin moving along the path again. My employee reports that the bracket pulled free because the vendor used indoor mounting hardware. I instruct him to inspect every suspended sign in the section.
Loralee waits until he leaves.
“Your arm is trembling.”
I close my right hand into a fist. The tremor stops.
“You caught a sign before it struck two people,” she continues. “Your shoulder has been aggravated since yesterday, and you just put your full weight through it.”
“It will subside.”
“It could. It could also tighten until you can’t turn your head tomorrow.”
“I’ve dealt with it before.”
“That doesn’t mean you’ve dealt with it well.”
I look at her. The playfulness is gone again, but there is no triumph in her. She isn’t pleased to have proof that she was right. Loralee is concerned. That makes refusing her more difficult.
“My last appointment ends at eight-thirty,” she says. “I can give you thirty minutes after the festival closes.”
“No crystals.”
“One.”
“No.”
“A small one.”
“No crystals, Loralee.”
She considers this. “I’ll place them nearby and promise not to tell you.”
“That still involves crystals.”
“Twenty minutes of ordinary massage, then. Licensed, practical, and entirely free of mystical interference.”
A muscle beneath my shoulder blade spasms hard enough to make the decision for me.
“Twenty minutes.”
Her face brightens. “Thirty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Done.”
I point toward her. “No readings.”
“I don’t read clients without permission.”
“No comments about my energy.”
“That may be more difficult.”
“Then this isn’t happening.”
“All right.” She raises both hands. “No energy commentary.”
“And no candles.”
“The candles remain unlit.”
“No special oils.”
“I’ll use unscented.”
“No music involving chanting, bells, or ocean noises.”
Loralee’s lips twitch. “Anything else?”
“No surprises.”
For the first time since she approached the fallen sign, her demeanor becomes completely serious.
“No surprises,” she agrees.
I should feel better after establishing the terms. Instead, awareness moves through me as I imagine her hands against my bare skin and the privacy screens closing around us.
Twenty-five minutes after closing. That is all I agreed to. It is already beginning to feel like a mistake.